


to fight under the one, to march behind the other

by smithens



Series: ficlets, drabbles, & story collections [1]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, M/M, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 9,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of mostly independent/unrelated canon-set one shots, ficlets, and never-to-be-completed pieces revolving around Enjolras and Combeferre, both romantic and platonic in nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the sun, visible though still rising

**Author's Note:**

> written as a result of a Tumblr prompt:
> 
> Enjolras and Combeferre working so late into the night that they end up watching the sunrise together

_June 5, 1832_

“Have you any more candles?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
Combeferre looked up from his writing at the question, focusing his gaze in Enjolras’s direction.  
  
Even in the candlelight, flickering and dim, the man was striking. His fair hair seemed to be a halo; his distinct profile somehow became more emphasised in shadow.  Enjolras had charmed many with his beauty, Combeferre knew, and more still with his demeanour and command of words. Combeferre included himself in both categories, something he was certain Enjolras knew but which neither of them needed to discuss.  
Enjolras had his pen to the parchment, his back curved over the writing desk, and for a moment Combeferre thought he might have spoken without realising it.  
  
The candle at the desk was indeed low-burning.  
  
“I ought to,” Combeferre said, loudly enough to rouse Enjolras once more. He then stood from his armchair and moved to the chest near the window. The curtain was drawn, but as Combeferre knelt to open a drawer he brushed it with his elbow. Sunlight shone into his eyes. He blinked.  
  
“Though, Enjolras, I daresay we shall have no use for them.” - and he pulled back the curtain.  
  
Combeferre’s rooms, near the Necker, had windows facing the north-east, and at that moment he was grateful for it: the sun, visible though still rising, cast its light across the room and up Enjolras’s back.  
  
Enjolras turned. Combeferre gave a reserved smile and beckoned him to the window before turning back to gaze at the dawn.  
  
He felt Enjolras’s arm across his shoulders but moments later; felt his hand grip his shoulder, firm and gentle.  
  
“The dawn of progress,” Enjolras pronounced, after they had spent several minutes standing so entwined, watching the daybreak.  
  
Several moments passed after, in silence. The room now flooded with light, Enjolras pulled away. Combeferre took his watch from his trousers pocket. (They had removed their coats and waistcoasts many hours earlier in the interest of comfort.)  
  
“We are expected at Feuilly’s in three hours, and at Courfeyrac’s in four.”  
  
Enjolras nodded. “Let us sleep, then, if briefly,” he replied. “It would be a disservice to the General were we weary at the procession.”  
  
Combeferre clasped Enjolras’s hand in his own, and in silence they made for the bedchamber.


	2. pastries were reason enough for deviation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is more romantic in nature.
> 
> written as a result of an anonymous Tumblr prompt:
> 
> One buys the other the favourite food. +kisses mebbe?

“I suppose I oughtn’t be surprised that you’ve distaste for sweet confectionery,” Combeferre teased, “and yet I am, for spite of the benefits such disaste leaves for me.”  
  
They were sitting at a bench nearby a boulangerie, taking advantage of the brief respite from walking as Combeferre enjoyed a profiterole.  
  
Enjolras smiled his stately smile. “You would do well to appreciate such benefits.”  
  
Combeferre did not reply aloud, but with a laugh, and he licked the sugar from his fingertips with a gleam in his eyes.  
  
It was an unusual deviation from their work together, but neither of the men would come to regret it - pastries, though Enjolras did not care to eat them, were reason enough for deviation.  
  
To see Combeferre jovial was a joy in and of itself, Enjolras decided, watching his dear friend take another small bite of the cream puff. The two of them had been engaged in little else but business for the past several nights; it was likely high time for a small bout of frivolity.  
  
His gaze came to fall at Combeferre’s lips, and he looked for a short moment, thinking of Combeferre’s recently expressed affections, only to turn away the moment he was gazed at in return.  
  
He did not expect for Combeferre to take his hand as he looked out onto the mostly deserted street corner. He certainly did not expect to feel his hand lifted, and then to feel Combeferre’s lips touch lightly to his knuckles, but it was a welcome expression all the same.  
  
Enjolras turned back toward Combeferre with the same smile from moments ago gracing his countenance. He pulled his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, glanced at it to note the hour, and said to Combeferre, “we’ve enough time for a walk.”   
  
Combeferre merely nodded, as after releasing Enjolras’s hand he had taken his final bite of the profiterole. "A walk it will be, then,“ he replied after swallowing. Then, perhaps sheepishly, “Thank you for the indulgence.”  
  
Enjolras rose from the bench. “The pleasure was mine."

 


	3. you will have no need of ribbons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written as a result of a Tumblr drabble meme:
> 
> 24\. “You’re the only one I trust to do this.”

“Courfeyrac declined, then?”

Enjolras smiled - reserved, but genuine. “He informed me in blunt fashion that to take a knife to my hair ought to be considered a crime,” he said. “Alas, it is growing; I consider the length a nuisance.” 

Combeferre smiled in turn, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners just slightly. The knife in his hand was not foreign; he wielded it as confidently as he wielded a surgical scalpel. Enjolras’s curls would not suffer. ”Astounding, that he did not leap at the chance to fashion your head into something more modish than classical.” Combeferre’s words were in jest. Enjolras’s smile remained, even as his friend sliced into locks of fair hair at the nape of his neck.

“He has succumbed to enviousness, he told me. I do not see how one might envy having to tie back his hair each morning.”

“Let us say, then, that when I am through you will have no need of ribbons, and our dear Courfeyrac will have no need of envy.”

“Utility must come before beauty, if my hair could even be called such.” 

Combeferre hummed noncommittally. In his view, Enjolras’s hair could not be called much other than beautiful, with its length and luster, but he knew that Enjolras did not have much for aesthetic sense. It pained him only slightly to be cutting it, but he knew that Enjolras preferred it shorter. Generally, he was happy to do what Enjolras preferred.

Enjolras continued speaking: “you’re the only one I trust to do this for me, now knowing that Courfeyrac finds it such a travesty. ”

They fell to contented silence after that, until some minutes later, when cuts of golden hair littered the floor beneath them. Combeferre set the knife down, stepping away.

After giving his newly sheared hair a once over in the mirror - the length in the back went only so far as a thumb’s width below his ears in its wavy state - Enjolras pronounced the haircut a success.

Combeferre, meanwhile, allowed himself but a minute for grieving Enjolras’s prior appearance before going off to acquire a broom.


	4. the viola, it seemed, was taunting him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from "Random Dialogue Generator" (http://writingexercises.co.uk/dialogue-generator.php)
> 
> “I’m too old to start again.”

“I’m too old to start again, I fear,” Combeferre said, surveying the instrument before him with a resigned look on his face - brow furrowed just slightly, lips parted in a sigh.

The viola, it seemed, was taunting him.

He and Enjolras were standing amidst the various odds and ends that furnished Jean Prouvaire’s rooms, and while Combeferre was intent at staring down the instrument in question, Enjolras seemed content to focus the gaze of his blue eyes at Combeferre.  Meanwhile, Prouvaire himself was seated on the floor at the foot of his mattress, plucking at a newly acquired erhu. Neither Enjolras nor Combeferre had the desire to express the sentiment that perhaps life as a flautist suited him better.

“Youth is fleeting,” Jean Prouvaire said, now fiddling with the bow of the instrument. “…though I should say, my dear Combeferre, it has not left you quite yet.”

Enjolras nodded, remaining silent. Combeferre turned his head to look at him, but spoke to Prouvaire: “I played as a boy, though I’d call my capabilities contentious at best. Is it so much effort to learn?”

Jean Prouvaire went pink. He smiled without showing his teeth, but his eyes creased as though he might laugh. “I know not. I never played in the first place.”

-

In the end, Combeferre did end up adopting the viola, after a quiet admission from Enjolras that he had excelled with the violin in his own youth, and that it should bring him joy to see and hear Combeferre taking up the instrument. “The Republic will require her musicians, after all,” he had said as they walked down the stairs from Jehan’s rooms.

Now, they stood in Combeferre’s tenement.

Combeferre held the instrument by the neck, and the bow in the fashion he recalled. Still, he felt at a loss.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras murmured, after they had spent several moments in silence, “I assure you, my words were genuine, and I would be most pleased to listen to your playing - your contentious capability, as I recall you saying, notwithstanding.”

They locked eyes. Enjolras continued speaking.

“That is, I am most pleased to be in your company at all, particularly when you are engaged in something you yourself find pleasant.” A pause. Combeferre set the viola in its case. “Yet, as we know, these things take time, and one must wait until he is prepared to challenge himself with new endeavors.”

“I shall take that time of preparation, then.”

Enjolras smiled. When the instrument and its accessories were tucked away in their case, Combeferre did, as well. Enjolras brought his hand to rest upon Combeferre’s shoulder.

“And I shall wait with utmost patience.”

 


	5. harmonic, Feuilly thought

"Well," Enjolras said, breaking a long-lasting silence. He stood. Combeferre and Feuilly lifted their heads in unison; Enjolras, with a gentle tug, took his coat from the back of his chair. Once having gracefully donned it, he began to gather what he had left on the table. 

The three of them had agreed to meet at a cafe halfway between both of their usual congregating places days in advance, in order that they might discuss Enjolras's recent trip to Marseille. That business had ended an hour ago, after which the conversation slowly came to a halt. It was summer. The air was warm; languor was the custom. They each had work of their own to tend to, after all, and as the cafe was deserted for the most part, it was enjoyable for each to share the others' company quietly.

"I shall leave these with you, Combeferre?" Enjolras, now with his satchel slung over his shoulder, held a small stack of handwritten papers. He set them on the table, his expression steadfast quiescent. 

Combeferre adjusted his spectacles and tilted forward, examining the pile. His eyes widened slightly in recognition. "Certainly," he said to Enjolras, and then turned to Feuilly, the corners of his lips turning up as his expression softened. "Furthermore, Feuilly, if you would oblige your assistance, I should happily accept it." Enjolras, too, smiled, and though the expression itself was brief, the look in his pale blue eyes remained fond.  Feuilly gave a small, reserved smile in return.

"Alas, I ought to leave in short time also - perhaps another day?"

"Certainly," and, "absolutely," came two voices instantaneously.

Harmonic, Feuilly thought. He said nothing further.

After a beat, Enjolras stepped back, looked back and forth between his friends. "Well," he repeated. "I shall be seeing you both later, I imagine. Until tomorrow, citizens." He took his hat - it had been set on the table at the same time as the papers - and stepped backward. 

"Farewell, love," Combeferre replied, with volume enough for both Enjolras and Feuilly to hear. Enjolras's lips parted; his gaze moved to the table, to Feuilly's folded hands on top of it, then back at Combeferre's eyes. 

Feuilly opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. He could not shake the feeling that he had overheard an intimate accident; at the same time, he could not turn his gaze away from Enjolras's expression, so intensely fond.

"Until tomorrow," Enjolras repeated softly, putting his hat on his head. Louder, then:  "Feuilly." 

He had time but to nod in reply before Enjolras turned to leave, and said nothing as Enjolras walked out the door. Combeferre, meanwhile, seemed to be gazing intently at the first page in the pile of papers, his cheeks showing the hint of a flush. Feuilly watched, drummed his fingers on the table out of awkwardness.

"Enjolras's notes are extensive, as to his custom, though his penmanship leaves some to be desired," Combeferre said finally, sliding the top sheet in Feuilly's direction. "You may provide a valuable alternate perspective regarding what is valuable, what is not, what needs editing - when you have the time, of course. He - that is to say, Enjolras - and I concur on the matter."

"You may trust in me, Combeferre," Feuilly said softly, looking at the sheet briefly - Enjolras's penmanship was indeed irregular, he decided - before passing it back. The tension dissipated. 

"I do." 

Their eyes met. Feuilly nodded. "I'd be happy to assist at another time, then." 

They left it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really struggled writing this one as it came at the end of a long period of writer's block and i've been having trouble getting back into my character voices and mannerisms. part of the credit for the idea goes to tama (pelides on ao3 i believe).


	6. interlude i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a 3 sentence fic meme on tumblr I wrote months ago that I thought I would drop here. :) this is set pre-canon.

“I should think it challenging, living as you did without a mother,” Combeferre said, then realised in the next moment that his words had not been tactful. Enjolras smiled, and though solemn, the expression was intent and unyielding. “Citizen Combeferre, my friend, though we have not always been amicable with one another, you must understand this of me now…: my mother is the Republic.”


	7. and unfamiliar it is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a Tumblr prompt from user stupidromanticus / Anacrea on AO3:
> 
> Combeferre/Enjolras: "Trust me." "Always."
> 
> Hopefully short but sweet; am posting via a tablet, so hopefully no formatting issues!

"In that case, you will simply have to trust me."

"I do," he replies, and he means it in more ways than simply here: Enjolras need not demonstrate a capability or talent beyond Combeferre's own to gain his trust in an unfamiliar environment.

And unfamiliar it is indeed. To visit Enjolras's boyhood home for the purpose of leisure and family would have been enough on its own; yet here, as the river water moves slowly and constantly, and the trees at its bank provide shade from the August sun, Combeferre sees a side of Enjolras he has not ever encountered in Paris. 

His smile is uninhibited even with his lips chapped and rosy from sun - this Combeferre knows firsthand - and his pale blue eyes are bright. Enjolras, even if only for this fortnight, has discarded his cares and his austerity in favor of this time together. Though part of him knows that this free man, unfamiliar to him and yet pure, will return to bearing the weight of the ideal on his shoulders the moment he is on his way north to them, Combeferre egoistically is enjoying what he can of it.

It stands that if Enjolras is entering a state of comfort, Combeferre will have to depart his own.

"Citizen, I assure you the water is shallow," Enjolras calls out, and he goes under. 

Combeferre's breath leaves him, and he counts: one, two, three, four, five, six -

Enjolras rises, the linen of his shirt clinging to his chest and arms outlining his collar bones and the definition of his torso, his hair that has been lightened by the sun somehow more translucent while saturated with water. 

"Combeferre!"

"Shallow, Enjolras, and you are a hand's width taller than I!" But he laughs, and steps into the water. The rocks are smooth against the soles of his feet. 

Without worry, without fear, Enjolras reaches down to splash the water toward him - and still, he smiles. "Come here, my friend, you need not have attended the swimming school to take refuge from the heat."

With each step he is deeper into the water, but Enjolras is right: the relief is well worth it. Once he is submerged up to his hips, he is close enough to Enjolras that he can reach to touch his cheek - he does so.

"Well," Enjolras says, and Combeferre feels under the intensity of his gaze a flush that is certainly not from sun alone. "You did trust me."

"Always," Combeferre murmurs, and he leans forward - the water soaks his belly as he does so, but his anxiety has already lessened - to press his lips to Enjolras's jaw. 

And though he knows that he may never hear again Enjolras's fond sigh so intimately, in this moment, it brings them both peace - and he is satisfied, and content, to have trusted.


	8. his philosophy and his science

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from an anonymous Tumblr prompt:
> 
> #5: "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"
> 
> \- which I modified to fit canon setting dialogue voices. :)

"It is incredible, Enjolras, that within our lifetimes we may see such ideas take hold in France, indeed in Europe at large, and that the work of scientific men before us will be so validated by the efforts of those in our century. In medicine... in surgery, especially, Enjolras, and you know of course my passion in this field, there is great work to be done, and although our barriers might appear insurmountable - for alas! many suffer beneath the scalpel, and it is for their good, but at times I quarrel with my own conscience when I wield it - indeed, complications may also arise, and though there is work to be done we do not yet know the cause of - of casualties after an operation, or fever worsening with bloodletting even as evidence shows that the ailment ought to have impro-"

"Yes?"

Combeferre ceases speaking and stills his gesticulation.

Enjolras looks up at him, pressing his lips together in order not to display his confusion.

Though he does not mean to be cold, there are times such as these where no matter how hard he tries, he cannot follow Combeferre's course of thought. It is good to see his dear friend so excited; indeed, it is his philosophy and his science that makes Combeferre who he is. But when their discussions on politics stray thus from the path - and lately it seems Combeferre does so more often, with the lectures he is attending - no matter his will to focus, he finds often that he cannot.

Yet Combeferre's brow creases, and he opens and closes his mouth more than once, his eyes widened in a look of bewilderment. 

It would be comical, if Enjolras did not feel a twisting in his chest.

"Forgive me," he says. "I intend to say - I do not follow, and I do not know much of bloodletting and fever as you do."

He turns and reaches over - lit only by candlelight, they are lying beside one another in his bed, although Combeferre has propped himself up by his elbows to speak - to rest his hand at his friend's arm, and to squeeze gently. In an instant, Combeferre's excitement is back, although he seems pensive.

"No, my friend, forgive me. I do get ahead of myself, do I not?"

Enjolras nods. "I should like to hear more, regardless."

"Well." The sound of an inhale; Enjolras sighs. Already he feels regret at his earlier queries.

"Well," Combeferre repeats, "as I was saying, my lecturer, when we met today, he emphasised to me that we must allow science to move along at its own pace, and that we men of medicine are noble in our profession to wish to remove the - the walls, his metaphor was more articulate than mine, Enjolras. Yet - his words resonated within me, for it is really just as I say: progress must take its course, and in the meantime, we may do as we can. Our knowledge of anatomy improves each day, and our knowledge of the causation of affliction - but I will admit I myself experience doubt, at times, that all mysteries will be explained for me to know them - but he told me that I am exceptional in the field, and that healing is noble enough but my desire to understand these things so fully sets me apart from my peers. I'm sure that I must have embarrassed myself when he spoke thus, Enjolras - truly, he is a remarkable man, I am honored merely to attend his lectures, but that he saw enough in me to - well, we only had coffee, but we spoke for some time, and he suggested that I -"

Squeezing his eyes closed in the hope that doing so might ease the strange, unpleasant fluttering he feels, Enjolras says again: "Combeferre."

The name leaves his mouth far more sharply than he had wanted. Immediately, he regrets interrupting; now that he can get a word in, however, he continues speaking anyhow.

"You are remarkable in your views of progress, Combeferre, but surely you know already that for it to be achieved as you wish, the oppressions of the people must be combatted at first - we must raise them just as we must fully bring the walls, as you said, down."

"Yes, we've spoken of this many times, my dear." 

The resigned tone gives him hesitation, but Enjolras does not pause, now that the thoughts are racing in his own mind, and the irritating tension finally dissipating. "And surely you know also that you are exceptional and intelligent without being told so by a visiting professor."

"Ah, that is not -"

"One that you did not know until last week, if I may add, Combeferre, it is curious to me that you would take to this man so-"

"Enjolras, you are - no, be quiet, hold a moment."

For Combeferre to use such a sharp tone with him is enough for Enjolras to know that he has greatly overstepped. He opens his eyes a moment later - and Combeferre is not angry, he is smiling, as though his annoyances are an amusement. 

He is also squinting, having removed his spectacles to sleep.

It is a pity that they did not immediately do so upon going to bed.

"Are you jealous, Enjolras?" Combeferre asks, and now it is his own turn to stammer and stumble. He closes his eyes again, feigning tiredness rather than stubbornness.

Yet more seconds pass. Enjolras turns his head toward the mattress and murmurs his dissent, but even as he makes the noise he knows it is a lie.

"It is true that I admire the man greatly," Combeferre continues, and Enjolras senses him shift to lay down close beside him. "But if you envy him my attention, I think you are in need of convincing that I admire you far more than any other."

And as he speaks, Combeferre's hand is at Enjolras's shoulder, brushing his thumb slowly - insistent, gentle - at the bare skin of his lower neck, his fingers slipping beneath the back of his nightshirt.

This is not the consequence to his outburst he expected.

Enjolras turns enough that any sound he makes will not be muffled, that he can see Combeferre out of the corner of his eye. 

The candle has been extinguished.

"Am I," he murmurs. 

"Indeed." 

"Then convince me."

Combeferre smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starting to think I may have to shuffle that 'canon compliant' tag for this collection, although the pieces in this work will never exceed the Teen Audiences rating. Thank you very much to everyone who has left kudos and comments so far!


	9. Picpus on Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a Tumblr prompt: Enjolras/Combeferre and a kiss on the forehead/top of the head.
> 
> :)

Combeferre is struck, occasionally, by how often needs to look up at a face that appears far younger than his own. When standing, it can be especially peculiar - but even seated, Enjolras sits taller and straighter than he himself does.

His posture demands attention no matter his position.

It is apposite, then, that Combeferre has endless attention to give to him.

“The men at Picpus will need little convincing,” he is saying, his voice low and deep. Combeferre nods, allowing continuation, and Enjolras then returns his gaze to the map before him, which he has been annotating with cautious right-handed penmanship. “Enthusiasm does not come easily, Combeferre, but from what I have heard, theirs is unparalleled. There ought be no indoctrination necessary, thus, I have designated them for you.”

And Combeferre nods again, affirming his agreement, even writes a little note - _Picpus on Wednesday_ \- in his open pocketbook, before he comes to a complete understanding of what Enjolras has just said.

A moment later he starts.

Enjolras does not look up from the map. His lines are more quickly drawn, now, and appear to be rule-straight. Combeferre notices that he has switched again to his left hand, and he cannot suppress his smile - but he feels, still, that he must enquire:

“Pardon,” he says.

“Our work will be best done if we are to meet early,” Enjolras continues simultaneously, but his hand stills when Combeferre speaks, and he sets down his pen after a moment without writing.

_No indoctrination necessary_ , thinks Combeferre. Aloud, he says softly instead, “you truly believe that is best?”

Enjolras looks up, his brows raised and his head tilted slightly to his right. A blond lock of hair falls from behind his ear to touch his cheek, but he does not brush it back. “To meet Wednesday morning?”

“No, Enjolras.”

Even when he is not glaring - and Combeferre considers himself lucky to have not been on the receiving end of that for some time - Enjolras’s gaze is powerful. With time, Combeferre has discerned when it is right to lower his eyes; now, he meets the look with one of his own.

They stare at one another for a long moment, Combeferre willing that he realise the source of his confusion, and when Enjolras’s eyes widen only slightly, he knows that he has been understood.

This detail in silent communication is a symptom only of the intimacy he shares with Enjolras.

“Do not think that I doubt your persuasive abilities.”

“Then -”

“I assure you ardently, that is not the case. I have seen firsthand your eloquence, Combeferre - you are exhaustive and impeccable, when you so choose to be. I have utmost confidence that, were you to attend the Glaciere, or the Barriere du Maine, you would be successful in providing them the passion for the ideal which I fear that they lack - but that is not where you are needed, my friend.”

After little time Combeferre finds he must be the first to look away after all: Enjolras looks at him with an expression so earnest he is almost regretful of his misinterpretation.

“Combeferre, the men at Picpus do not require indoctrination, they require illumination. I know of no man better suited to such a task than you.”

He knows what this means.

Enjolras reaches across the table to take hold of his hand; Combeferre allows this, and he bows his head.

After one gentle, comforting squeeze of his fingers, Enjolras releases him and goes back to his work at the map.

He does not speak again, but Combeferre can see him writing little notes in the blank space on the paper. They will discuss the remaining plans later - and a glance at his pocketwatch, laid on the table so as not to be ignored, tells him that this discussion must come later, after all.

Combeferre stands, replaces his notebook in his coat pocket, and goes to stand beside Enjolras - now he looks down at his friend, rather than up at him.

“On Wednesday I will go to Picpus,” he says. “I promise you that.”

“You have my confidence.”

Enjolras tilts his head up at Combeferre only after he concludes his words. His smile is reserved but warmly sincere, and his eyes show the same emotion. Combeferre’s heart swells.

Before the nerve leaves him, he leans down and presses a brief, chaste kiss to Enjolras’s forehead.

“I will see you again this evening, Citizen,” he says - and Enjolras’s smile does not falter.

As he departs, Combeferre returns it unabashedly.


	10. an artillery shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minific for a tumblr prompt for Enjolras/Combeferre, "brontide" (defined in the prompt list as “the low rumbling of distant thunder”).

The second time he is fully awake when he hears it, and again he is reminded immediately of an artillery shot - but unlike the noise of a cannon, the sound is extended and hollow, akin to thunder rather than gunpowder. As the noise continues on, his thirst for knowledge gets the better of him, and Combeferre leaves his bed and moves in the dark to meet Enjolras in his bedchamber, for his own lacks a window.

When he slips into the room from the corridor, he must blink a few times to regain his sight: moonlight casts a glow throughout the room, Enjolras sleeps soundly even with his face and hair illuminated and glowing at his pillow. Whatever sound Combeferre heard in his own room disappears at the same moment Enjolras shifts - stretching out and then contracting to his former position - but having come inside and already chanced a disturbance, Combeferre does not wish to walk back to his room in this vast, unfamiliar house.

He sits at the desk, positioned that he may look outside at the curiously cloudless sky (he can exclude thunder, then) yet still see Enjolras clearly, sound asleep and at peace in his childhood bed.

In the morning, he wakes in the same place, but when he lifts his head from the desk and turns around, the effects of the moon have ceased, and Enjolras is bathed in dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was written with the same setting as [and unfamiliar it is](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3854002/chapters/15739960) from chapter 7 of this collection in mind - but it can be read in any way you want. :)
> 
> it's worth noting that brontide describes not only a kind of thunder but a seismic event that sounds /like/ thunder, but has also been thought to sound like a long explosion. according to my limited Google-based research, it primarily happens near or over bodies of water, but not always.


	11. too pleasant a sensation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from the Tumblr nonsexual acts of intimacy prompt meme: ♝: reading a book together, Enjolras & Combeferre.

“You turn pages much too quickly for my following,” Combeferre was saying, but though he was a little stern, he retained his tone of fondness. Were he being genuinely chastised, Enjolras suspected the remark would not have been accompanied with gentle petting.

“On occasion I have heard these words from your mouth,” Enjolras said, settling backward against Combeferre’s chest and allowing the strokes at his head to continue, “for you have this passage memorised - do you not?”

Combeferre rewarded this comment with a gentle, deliberate twirl of his fingers in Enjolras’s hair, which Enjolras found produced too pleasant a sensation to protest. He hummed and closed the book around his finger, keeping his place.

Shadows bounced across the room at the whim of the flickering lamp upon the nightstand; in seconds, without the task of reading to occupy his mind, Enjolras found his tiredness more apparent. Combeferre, beneath and beside him in bed, had likely noticed this state of his some time ago.

Yet he himself was easily distracted by reading, and moreso by Enjolras’s comments upon the text, that he seemed not to realise he had been on the verge of sleep for some time also.

But Combeferre would not admit to that, Enjolras knew, when he had been so insistent they proceed with reading the Eighth Epoch even at the suggestion of sleep.

“The love of mankind,” he murmured, and then, “I dare say that I do, Enjolras. How grateful I am you have now noticed.”

Though Combeferre spoke dryly, he constantly continued his little touches to Enjolras’s head; this affection coupled with the haze of his present drowsiness gave Enjolras mind to simply close his eyes and go to sleep right there against Combeferre’s chest.

Perhaps if he did so, Combeferre would follow suit out of mind for his best interest.

The book slipped from his grasp, falling to rest on top of the bedquilt, and Combeferre retrieved it with his free hand.

“For my part I have noticed you are exhausted,” he said, reaching to set the book upon the bedside table. “Thus we shall return to your study of Condorcet tomorrow, if you like.”

“Ah,” replied Enjolras, for it was the most that he could manage to say.

No doubt he would recall his thoughts from the previous passage when they returned to it the next evening; even though, as this ‘study’ continued, so did their routine of sharing Combeferre’s bed.

This, curiously, he did not mind.

Enjolras closed his eyes and rolled slowly off of Combeferre to lie down entirely; after Combeferre put out the lamp, he felt his arm around his waist, and the gentle pressure of Combeferre’s legs against his own.

The dark, too, was soothing.

In moments, they were asleep.


	12. impeccable rhetoric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short piece to fill a Tumblr prompt from skyandfields!

As he observes from afar a discussion among his friends, Combeferre knows must concede thus: there is little about Enjolras that wouldn’t be charming, were the circumstances right. Enjolras is persuasive through logic, and his rhetoric is impeccable, but it is often that he does not need to make use of his abilities. Men would listen to him even without those talents.

To have a friend so charismatic in such an etheral way as Enjolras was unexpected - but it is true, Combeferre knows, that he did not find Enjolras charming at first.

For nearly a year he found Enjolras’s impeccable rhetoric irritating beyond belief, and his devotion to both the supposed-near future and its historic foundations seemed too distant from Combeferre’s own to be worth anything. (Now, it is something on which they cooperate gladly.) Enjolras smiled less, then, and such stoicism seemed out of place. How could a man, Combeferre wondered, speak with so much passion but turn from joy? Enjolras did not laugh, but nor did he cry, yet even when Combeferre found his plans too rushed and his political opinions too radical, he was touched by his devotion. Still: the stolidity bothered him. That a man like Courfeyrac, mirthful and excitable, could be so close with a man like Enjolras was perplexing at best.

It turned out, after a fashion, that Enjolras smiled beautifully and often, that he trailed off in discussions from contemplation rather than pretentiousness, and that his politics were not, after all, reprehensible. (Maybe Combeferre’s own opinions had changed, in addition to Enjolras’s. That he had conceded only recently.)

In the end, Courfeyrac had bridged the waters between them with warmth and laughter, as though to make up for the year after he had introduced them. 

In organizing a society they made their peace. Bonds formed; a friendship sprang up between them.

The rest, Combeferre supposes, will make history.

 


	13. scientific in nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very brief character piece which I didn't think would ever see the light of day, but here it is :)

A heart is a curious thing.

Being a student of medicine, Combeferre's understanding of the organ is scientific in nature; he has attended several forums and lectures regarding the heart with utmost enthusiasm, motivated by desire to better his own knowledge of advancements in anatomical medicine. If asked, he could easily describe the functions of a heart's chambers, the nature of arteries and veins, and the purpose of the organ in relation to the functions of a man's body. His extensive knowledge on the matter, in fact, has served him well in his medical studies. 

But although he understands the physiology of it all thoroughly, he could not explain the cause of the fluttering of his pulse or the light-headed sensation he feels when lying beside Enjolras. There is nothing which he can connect with such a physical reaction: he is not nervous, nor excited, he is content, and calm - but for his heart.

Next to him Enjolras is asleep, hardly stirring, his skin finally warm to touch: he is quick to chill, Combeferre, has noticed, particularly now that it is winter. He has troubled himself over it in the past. Is it an imbalance of humours? Perhaps that tendency, too, is to do with the heart.

Sometimes, after nights like the last when they are awake too late and the air is too cold to part, they share a bed, and when Combeferre wakes up in the morning he finds that Enjolras has wrapped an arm around his chest or positioned his legs around Combeferre's own in his sleep. On those mornings, Enjolras never shivers, and Combeferre can never bring himself to wake him by leaving bed himself.

It is one of those mornings, and if Combeferre turns just slightly he can listen to Enjolras's own pulse, slow and relaxed in his sleep. They can lie there for as long as Enjolras needs, which is usually until just as the sun begins to rise.

Upon waking Enjolras will smile, and Combeferre suspects he will feel his heart race again for the occasion.

 


	14. remembering etiquette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an unprompted microfic from my steadily diminishing pile of old pieces :)

"Enjolras," Combeferre says finally, after several minutes of enthused chatter, "may I present my eldest sister, Mathilde."

Mathilde smiles widely before hastily covering her mouth her hand, and in that brief moment Enjolras notices the striking resemblance between the two - Mathilde's eyes are the same curious, blue-brown hazel as her brother's, her shoulders similarly broad, her curled hair the same dark auburn brown beneath her bonnet, and the way she smiles - widely, but only just showing teeth - reminds Enjolras heavily of Combeferre in his more jovial moods. Yet, he thinks, scrutinizing, where they are similar in appearance and habit, they are contrasting in overall effect. There is something singularly feminine in Mathilde's expression, something maternal and womanly that her brother does not possess.

Remembering his etiquette, Enjolras bows his head and shoulders, gracefully and briefly. 

"It is a pleasure to meet you," he remarks, and Mathilde is thoroughly charmed if her expression is anything to go by. Combeferre -  Enjolras internally chastises himself, he ought at least to try to use the forename in the presence of family - is smiling, and the look of it is genuine. Mathilde stands on the tips of her toes to kiss her brother's cheek, and then steps backward.

"I shan't stay now," she says, shifting back and forth in a way which makes her full skirt twirl, "as Richard and I must meet with his uncle before long. He is expecting us. Benji, you will keep your promise, won't you?"

"Of course. I wish you will until then," Combeferre says, and his sister turns back toward the carriage whence she had come. Before she goes, however, she stands up again to whisper something into Combeferre's ear.

His cheeks redden a little, in the manner Enjolras knows well, but he clasps her hand before standing aside to see her off, murmuring something else that is entirely unintelligible.

Enjolras stands silent as Mathilde goes back to the coach, and he says nothing when Combeferre waves at whoever else is inside - the husband, presumably.

"Benji," he deadpans, a few moments after it has departed, and Combeferre sighs.

"A childhood nickname."

"Hm."

Combeferre takes his arm and leads him back to beneath the awning of his building, then through the door to the stairwell. 

"She said you were becoming," he pronounces as they make their way up the stairs, "and I concurred."

It then becomes Enjolras's turn to blush, and Combeferre's to laugh - and Enjolras can imagine, for a moment, what it is like to be charmed.


	15. heads would turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an old piece that I figured I would put up when I had time. I have time now :)

In the glow of the fire, Enjolras's profile was distinct - the angle of his jaw, the slope of his forehead, the curve of his narrow nose, and all the rest of his features that in the day were pleasing became, in the night, captivating. In the dawn, Enjolras was enchanting, and by firelight he was prepossessing. He sat nearly unmoving, a book in his hands, divested of his coat and cravat, with his collar loose and his waistcoat draped over the arm of his chair. From his nest of linens and quilts in the bed, listening to the ever-so-often turn of a page or a hum of interest, Combeferre could not help but wonder. It was a thought which he had set aside in the past: did Enjolras know the effect his beauty had on others?

Certainly, he had to be aware that he was beautiful. If Enjolras walked down the street, heads would turn. He charmed the few women he spoke with prior to speaking at all; as for the men, were they not covetous, they were enthralled. His speech and rhetoric were further impressive, further enthralling, and at times Combeferre could not hold himself to a vow of detachment. Indeed, for Combeferre, it was not Enjolras's appearance which so became him, but his thoughts, beliefs, and his devotion to progress. A different progress, sometimes, than Combeferre's own ideal, but progress nonetheless. They shared the dearest of their ideals, and that was what truly mattered - that was the nature of their connection, and their love. (His dear friend being so handsome was only an additional, complicating factor.)

At times, the nature of his own feelings surprised him, and he made do with them in privacy. It was no secret that Enjolras could not reciprocate them: neither, however, was it a secret that Enjolras valued their intimacy, for he had told Combeferre directly himself.

Combeferre pulled the blankets to his shoulders, lay his head down again, and tried to sleep, content in the dim light of the fire and in the presence - if distant - of his most loved companion.


	16. tentative awe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a prompt from Oilan from about this time last year. :) for logic and philosophy week, 2016.

"Look lower, there, Enjolras, surely you can find Arcturus? A very evident star, red in color -"

"Red?"

"It glows red, yes, though not always so evidently."

If Combeferre did not believe so wholly in the learning potential of every man, he would think that Enjolras was hopeless with astronomy. 

As it was, Enjolras at the very least required much education, but he did not seem to begrudge Combeferre his enthusiasm. The stars, after all, had been dear to Combeferre from the first moment his grandfather had taken the time to pass his knowledge of the night skies unto him. On that night in July, many years ago - he had been but a boy, then, not yet in the lycée - he and elder sister had followed Grand-père out to the meadow behind their home, and for the remainder of the night had with rapt attention listened to stories from Greek and Roman myth, gazing wide eyed at the heavens.

It was their second night in Combeferre's hometown, and Combeferre had brought Enjolras to the very same meadow. After perhaps half an hour of observing - he had not checked his watch - they had settled into a mutually comfortable position: himself, seated, Enjolras, lying in the grass with his head in Combeferre's lap. In this way, Combeferre could better direct Enjolras's gaze in the right direction.

"Arcturus," Enjolras repeated. "Why Arcturus?"

"You must have studied Greek. Consider its location - you saw Ursa major this morning, did you not?"

Enjolras hummed in understanding, then went silent.

Arcturus, the guardian of the bears - and the first star which Combeferre had identified independently, all those years before. He pointed it out with one hand, doing his best to do so in a manner that Enjolras would be able to see it, also. Enjolras shifted in Combeferre's lap, tilted his head. His brow was furrowed slightly; his lips were pursed - telling signs of concentration. That was good, Combeferre thought. Perhaps he'd find it, after all. He stopped pointing, then, and moved his hand to rest at Enjolras's shoulder. 

"It belongs to a constellation, but we ought to save that for another night, I think."

In Paris, with few open spaces and many street lamps, the stars were not easily viewed. Nowhere in Paris was fit to observe. In the southern countryside, however, it was all too easy to stargaze, and though Combeferre had desired to bring Enjolras to his home for numerous reasons, this was very much an important one. Now, they were fulfilling it - and hopefully they would continue to do so, in the coming nights. For all the time Enjolras spent awake at night, he had never stargazed, had never seen the stars as they were meant to be seen. Combeferre had been surprised when Enjolras had told him this, but it made sense in a way: Enjolras did not show his interest in the world in the same manner Combeferre himself did. To Enjolras, stargazing was akin to picking flowers in that they were both a frivolous use of time. 

But after some persuasion, he had been willing to try the former.

Combeferre was uncertain of the nature of Enjolras's interest. It was possible that he only meant to satisfy his expectations - but Combeferre had none, and he would be mostly contented if Enjolras were, indeed, hopeless. There were other tasks to complete here, anyhow; this time together at night was a pleasant distraction from the business of the day. Ordinarily, however, Enjolras did not often take well to distractions. Combeferre thought it miraculous that Enjolras had obliged him in the first place.

"Ah, Combeferre - "

He looked down to see Enjolras with his head forward, now pointing to a spot in the sky which seemed only a short ways above the horizon. Though Combeferre's vantage point was skewed, he could see plainly that Enjolras was looking in the right direction now.

"Have you found it?" He could not keep the excited anticipation from his voice. 

"I believe I have," Enjolras murmured, and the tentative awe in his voice gave Combeferre shivers. "Unless, that is, there is another red star?" 

"Not where you're looking, Enjolras."

Enjolras smiled, then: very small, reserved, but a smile nonetheless. Combeferre began to play with his hair.

“You are learning yet,” he said, with a tug at one of the golden curls, and Enjolras settled down and closed his eyes.

“I do not see their use, for anything other than navigation, Combeferre. I may choose to set my sights on earth alone.”

_ As you would _ , thought Combeferre, and he pressed the palm of his hand to Enjolras’s forehead.

Nonetheless, he contented himself with saying only, “do not lose sight of the future, my friend.”

Enjolras said nothing, and still Combeferre understood him: such a warning was unnecessary, because Enjolras and Combeferre would not ever lose their sight or their focus on the future, and the progress which was to come.


	17. an inspiring sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a legitimately unfinished character study-ish piece that may or may not be revisited, but i'm placing it here because i put it on tumblr too.

Enjolras, though captivating, was austere in a manner that in their many years of friendship Combeferre found still to be imperturbable.

He did not go to the theatre, nor the opera; he attended public lectures quietly if invited but never alone. Music and dancing did not hold his interest, and a walk through the gardens did not appeal to him if he had no destination at the other side. What pleasure he took from life as a student came from only, it seemed, his ideals, and the brotherhood of the society les Amis de l’ABC.

When he smiled, for a brief moment his severity left him, and his ethereal beauty turned into something more humane.

As it was, he did not smile rarely, but nor was to do so his habit.: most often he seemed to do so only in the presence of his closest companions. Combeferre could most always induce the expression, for which he was most always thankful. Feuilly’s words earned him a smile from Enjolras more often than he surely knew - Lesgles, Bahorel, Joly, and Courfeyrac earned the look not from their jest or repartee but from their deportment and dedication. Prouvaire, whose melancholy was ever-present but whose laughter was grand, reveled in Enjolras’s happiness, and on occasion he made great effort to see it in his countenance.

That was understandable.

To see Enjolras happy was an inspiring sight - not, of course, that he was sad, or melancholy himself. Combeferre knew better than anyone that this was not the case, and Enjolras expressed his grief just the same as his joy: very inconspicuously.

Laughter and tears were more rare.

And indeed, Combeferre’s own habits of expression surely seemed just as monotone to outsiders as Enjolras’s, perhaps even more so: his peers in his year of medical school certainly seemed to think him aloof, at best.


	18. sensible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a prompt meme:  
> 7\. “I’ve missed you” kiss

Enjolras goes to greet him at 8 o’clock the day following his supposed return, knowing well that there could have been a delay or postponement that he is unaware of.

Like always, he utilises the rearmost entrance: there is no porter there, and Combeferre’s few neighbors at hospital quarters each have an understanding of who may come and go in secret, and from which apartment. It is not always illicit, in his case, but when it is, it is not so in the manner that the other interns may think. His reasons for entering in the evening and departing in the morning are solely seditious in nature.

After several weeks’ absence, it is sensible that they check in with one another, and Combeferre had bade him to visit early in a letter dated eleven days prior.

He checks the window, rarely shuttered, before knocking to avoid causing a premature disturbance, tilting his head that he may peer between the curtain and the frame. The sight of warm yellow lamplight and Combeferre’s shadow silhouetted along the wall give him pause - as though time, for the duration of his glance, could stop. He turns his head as he begins to feel featherlight, quivery, pleasant; the moment and sensation disappear in one.

Enjolras touches the knob, starts to turn it, and then ceases. For a fraction of a second he allows himself to wrest his hand there before pulling away at the sound of … shuffling, or a likewise noise, inside. He knocks upon the door once: it opens immediately.

And immediately thereafter, he is embraced.

Combeferre squeezes him so tightly that he nearly thinks he is at the wrong door: this act of affection is not in their history. It is not in Enjolras’s history.

But Combeferre’s grasp is as sturdy around his back as upon his shoulder, and even after some time in the south he smells the same, feels the same. (Enjolras somehow had not known that Combeferre was distinctive in such manner.) Enjolras steps inside as Combeferre steps back, pushing the door shut with his heel as he does so.

When they part, Enjolras cannot cease staring: Combeferre has not changed, but at the same time his demeanor and appearance need taking in. His smile, too, is impossible to turn from. Though he’s half dressed, wearing merely his trousers, chemise, and braces, hair - always a little unruly - untidy from sleep, exhausted from several long days of travel, Enjolras finds that he looks better than he usually sees him.

He opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to greet him, but stops as Combeferre leans in again, pressing together their left cheeks. A moment later, he does the same on the opposite side, and Enjolras realizes with some perplexed wonder that this is an adjusted bisous.

“Good morning,” he says, as Combeferre moves back once more, now pink-tinged and beaming.

“I’ve missed you,” replies Combeferre, his voice strong, and Enjolras cannot help but smile.


	19. to lack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a prompt, which was: an "I almost lost you" kiss, interpreted figuratively

“For all that you complain of its nuisance I expected you’d have visited a barber by now, but I daresay I am not sorry you’ve neglected to do so.”

“Hm,” says Enjolras, and he sets down his book - a borrowed volume which is yet to genuinely take his interest - as Combeferre shifts to kneel behind him, fingers in his hair. His touches come unexpected: not a second ago, Combeferre was seated beside him upon the floor, peering over his shoulder at the book in silence.

Of course, Combeferre’s actions make more sense when summed. Enjolras tilts his head back into Combeferre’s hands, allowing his eyes to close, ruminating.

“It is not so much of a nuisance that I must prioritize it above other appointments, Combeferre, but, I shouldn’t see why you carry an opinion on the matter.”

His words leave his mouth with more gravity than he had intended.

Behind him, Combeferre huffs, twisting one lock between two fingers. With this comes a slight tug, and despite himself, Enjolras hums at the feeling.

“Ought I withhold my… appreciative opinions, in the future, Enjolras? Ordinarily, you heed them no mind.”

This time, he accompanies his words with attention to Enjolras’s scalp, his fingers pressing and releasing around his head in a way that is surely calculated.

Whatever little part of him that sored with the implication cannot stay wounded at such affection; as he begins to relax, he leans back against Combeferre’s knees, hazy. The positioning is strikingly similar to sitting in Combeferre’s lap, and for a moment he feels as though he might stay this way for a time, wholly content.

“Express yourself at will,” says Enjolras, after a little more thought: for, this is Combeferre, and there is no reason for his lack of tact, less of one for withholding his own thoughts. “I harbor nothing but trust for you.”

Combeferre stops moving with his fingers tangled in Enjolras’s hair, palms against his head.

“Enjolras, it is never your trust which I fear I lack.”

“I do not wish for you to lack anything from me.”

Combeferre’s long exhale and then his silence say more than his words, even with all effects of his eloquence and verbosity, ever could.

A stalemate.

To speak as though he does not understand would be, at this point, to lie: something for which Enjolras could not forgive himself. This territory is not un-navigated, only uncharted.

“Express yourself at will, Combeferre, if you please, and I vow to accept your truths, and I swear above all I shall not refuse you your feelings. But, I cannot swear to you that which I may not fulfill: there are things which are greater than each of us can yet know, and it is in their pursuance that my deepest allegiance lies.”

Combeferre settles, ceases his touches entirely.

“One’s deepest allegiance, be it grand, be it honorable, needn’t bar him from his humanity, Enjolras. I shall not lose your companionship, and moreover you will not lose mine. It is as we have promised one another.”

Then he shifts, and Enjolras moves upright once more to allow him: but before he opens his eyes, he feels the press of a kiss to his forehead.

Combeferre rises, moves away: Enjolras counts his steps, hears the door of his bedchamber creak open, and says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for making Combeferre suffer but it's to make up for all the highly shippy content I hope to put up for the rest of this month


	20. anticipating a summer storm

Combeferre's return from Dorset was marked by overcast skies and heavy showers.

Anticipating a summer storm, he had decided after his errands and little deliberation that it was best to stay alone in his rooms until called upon. His time in England, though pleasurable, had left him in curious melancholy; owing to what, he was unsure. Perhaps it was the weather in Paris. Unusually, it had not rained at all in Charmouth; in fact, it had been warm enough that he and his sisters had managed to attend the seashore nearby. (The waters of la Manche were far colder than the waters of the Mediterranean, a fact which quite surprised his young sisters upon their rash decision to go bathing. Combeferre himself had been content to comb the sands for shells, simply watching as the girls splashed and ran.) Perhaps, indeed, his melancholy was a result of his distance from his companions while across the water - but in that case, he had reasoned, he would likely be more apt to visit his friends than to take his time without them, and the former prospect was not appealing with the pouring rain outside.

Though the nature of his mood was uncertain, he was on the other hand quite certain that the benefit from solitude outweighed benefit from socialisation. For example, he now had the spare hours to sit in peace and read. In the weeks prior to his departure, he had been otherwise occupied, working with the society, wrapping up matters that in his extended absence could have escalated. There was no time allotted for reading and writing, not before nor during his holiday.

Now, as he sat in bed beneath the duvet with his worn volume of Beudant's  _ Voyage minéralogique et géologique _ in his hands, he hoped that he would remain uninterrupted. He had already seen the portress and the landlord, and he had bought bread and cheese that ought to last between meals for at least the next two days or so. No need for him to go out; no need for anyone else to come in.

Or, so he wished.

Any wish such as that, however, was prone in Combeferre’s history to not come to fruition, and so when he heard, a mere sixty pages into the book, three curt raps at the door, he could not find it in him to truly be irritable.

Not, at least, when the style of knocking indicated a particular and much-desired visitor.

Combeferre made note of his place in the text - he had not yet passed the section on mountainous geological formations - and set the book upon his nightstand, unable to keep himself from smiling with anticipation.

“You’ve a key, do you not?” he called to the front of the room, and as if his visitor had only been waiting to hear such words, the lock clicked and the door opened.

There stood Enjolras, hatless, his fine, flaxen hair soaked to his head, the shoulders of his earth-colored overcoat clearly damp, and his walking stick dripping. But he, too, was smiling, in his soft, severe way, and he met Combeferre’s gaze in that peculiar, focused manner of his that made one feel as though he were the only man in the room worth looking at.

“It is suspect, I find, to enter without knocking,” said Enjolras smoothly, and he closed the door again by leaning backward against it. “That is, when one knows not whom his guest may be, or indeed, when one’s guests may be known but unwelcome.”

_ You are the only one with a key _ , thought Combeferre, and then - _ in fact, you are the only one whom my porter allows inside without further persuasion _ , but he said nothing, for what was worth saying when he could see Enjolras before him for the first time in weeks? Aside from being rain-soaked, his dearest friend appeared the same as ever, just as Combeferre would have expected. (Just as he had pictured him, in his nights away from Paris.) His reservations regarding interaction faded away; with Enjolras before him, he could not help but smile.

“How was your holiday?” Enjolras prompted, removing his coat, which he hung upon the wallhook, and then his shoes, which he set in their typical place near the doorway. 

“I missed you horribly,” replied Combeferre, so adamantly he surprised himself, but although it was not the most apt answer to the question it was the furthest thing from a lie. “I missed you horribly, Enjolras, but I’ve also very much to tell you.”

Enjolras looked at him with raised brows, creases of surprise in his forehead, but said nothing until he had taken off his frock-coat and then crossed the room to sit at the edge of Combeferre’s bed. Combeferre embraced him immediately, which dampened his collar, but he could not find it in himself to care.

“And I, you,” said Enjolras, songlike into Combeferre’s ear, and Combeferre did not want to know which declaration, specifically, he was replying to. “I thought of writing, but you left no address; though, if I had had one, I am sure I would have reasoned that by the time anything arrived you’d be returned. I do not like to make a habit of posting sensitive matters.”

“For that I may hardly blame you.” 

They parted, Combeferre letting his arms linger at Enjolras’s shoulders. They did not often embrace, but something had come over him, and it seemed appropriate.

Enjolras, for his part, did not seem irritated with this affection; although he lowered his gaze, there was a hint of a sentimental smile at his lips and eyes. Combeferre looked to his half-open valise on the floor, the table untidy with drafts of letters he attempted to write to his father the previous evening, the sand inexplicably scattered about the floor, and felt as though he were not nearly put together enough to give Enjolras the welcoming which he deserved. 

The rain outside grew steadily louder, and Combeferre felt for an instant that he and Enjolras had been sitting with one another for hours, their legs only slightly touching, content, intimate. He closed his eyes to dissuade himself of the notion.

For the first time in the day, thunder rumbled. Enjolras set his hand upon Combeferre’s thigh.

Of all his friends, Enjolras was the man most prone to touch.

“What have you to tell me?” he asked, and somehow his words did not break the silence but seemed an inevitable continuation of it. “As you were the one away it is only just that you speak first.”

"Well," said Combeferre, enjoying the weight of Enjolras's hand on his leg, the touch of their shoulders side by side.

The room was suddenly illuminated as lightning struck. Enjolras seemed closer to him, then.

"It did not rain at all, unusually, but how lucky I was for it! — I do not suppose you know, Enjolras, of Miss Mary Anning, a woman fossil collector and paleontologist who resides near enough to my grandparents' residence that I encountered her on the beach during a walk..."

Enjolras made a noise of curiosity, and so Combeferre spoke with greater enthusiasm: to tell stories was pleasant, to tell them to Enjolras was even moreso, and as the storm continued outside Combeferre felt little else but warmth and comfort in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was in the works for a loooooong time, a simple little piece, and it is with this that I am ending this story collection. Thank you to everyone who has followed along through my changes in style & character opinions (re: kissing mostly), and I'm excited to post some bigger and more complex Enjolras/Combeferre works in the future. ♥


End file.
